Legend of the Sirens
by Rae An
Summary: This is a look into the vague past of the maritime Sirens. They weren't always viciously seductive, winged women with a taste for sailor.


**Author's Note**: This is a one-shot (plus a little poem I wrote which inspired this story) addressing the ambiguity of the Sirens' origin. All you Greek freaks out there (I'm sure there isn't an abundance of you) don't go crazy on me with the Greek words. I just wanted to spice up the rhetoric a bit with some "genuine" ancient Greek vocabulary. Also a note to you mythology lovers: I know the Sirens I describe aren't the typical half-bird-half-woman Sirens; just be thankful I didn't write them as mermaids. The numbers 1-5 you'll see in parentheses spaced throughout the story refer to cliffnotes at the very end. The story will make a lot more sense if you actually read the notes as you read the story. And finally you may notice as you read that there is practically no dialogue. This is because I wanted to develop the characters through their actions not their words, and I just decided to try out the "tear-jerking-silent-cartoon" mood. Tell me how/if you feel this technique worked in the comments, if you please.

**Disclaimer**: All rights go to... Well, that's the great thing about Greek mythology. Nobody really owns it. But I will say that I didn't "create" Demeter or Persephone or the Sirens or Hades (even though he isn't named, you'll know who he is), just their appearance and personalities. My story, I worked off of the book (Book V to be exact) in Ovid's (yes, I know he's Roman) _Metamorphoses_ which said that Demeter created the Sirens to find Persephone. That's all.

**Cover Art**: I'd just like to say that I shed many drops of blood, sweat, and tears in the making of that piece with my water color paint and black pencils.

**Warning**: I know it sounds like movie ratings, but this is the only way I know how to do this: implied (not graphic) nudity, gore/blood, and some mild sensuality.

**Names**: Last thing, I promise. I know some accounts give names for the Sirens, but I wanted to use my own (aka, other random nymphs' names). Personally I hate being unsure of pronunciation when I'm reading, so here's a list of the names with the pronunciations (I don't know the proper phonetic spellings so I made some up): Demeter (Deh-meet-er), Persephone (Per-sef-own-ee), Thronia (Troan-ya), Liriope (Leer-ee-oap), Ismanis (Iz-mawn-iss), Minthe (Mint), Castalia (Cast-awl-ya), Stilbe (Still-bee), Harpina (Harp-een-ah), and Aiolos (Eye-oal-oas).

* * *

**Siren's Song**

Lounging in meadows starred with flowers,  
Crooning cantatas marred with powers.  
Powers lusting, powers weeping,  
Powers singing, ever keeping,  
Keeping those they've swallowed under,  
Devouring them and then to slumber.  
But awake, awake come they again!  
Along the coastline rocky  
Without a piece of saving cotton  
Or place of safely docking.  
Remind you them of shadows rank,  
As rank and bloody as could be,  
As he who stole Persephone,  
Whose mother in her deep distraught  
Said, "To find mine love, you ought,"  
Grew you wings of cursed feather,  
Then far away, away sent you  
To remain bird-girls forever.  
Now you among their fresh flesh loll,  
Calling and crying and crooning them all.  
You coax with body and mind and voice.  
They come, they come, but was it by choice?  
Desires and dreams don't ever last long.  
But theirs was timeless Siren's song.

* * *

**Legend of the Sirens**

The turf at Thronia's feet tore. The fissure rumbled with the crack of roots ripped and the sputtering of moist dirt stretched. Clods burst into the air like fireworks and sprinkled down again, thrumming against the ground. Chunks of earth now loosened themselves into the chasm and disappeared into the darkness, disintegrating as they tumbled. Thronia tripped frantically away from the splitting wound, bottomless even in its depths. The other nymphs fell away too as it gaped wider, swallowing trees and earth. There was Liriope with eyes cinched tightly shut, her small body huddled against the remnants of a grassy knoll. And there was Stilbe draped in the sheer tatters of her _peplos_(1) as she lay unconscious, tangled in the brittle branches of a fallen juniper. The rest had fled.

Excepting Persephone. The girl stared with wonder and horror down into the rent in the land. As she froze near the mouth, wildflower bouquet held limply at her side, it retched a dark, roiling mist. The vapors poured from the hole and swelled outward, caressing Persephone's ankles with its twisting fingers. The tendrils hovered over the grass and drifted into the atmosphere with a blackening the haze. From it seeped the smell of death. It wasn't that earthly smell of sickly-sweet rotting flesh. It was moist, like oozing fungus, but decayed, like moth-eaten clothes or crumbling books. And it seared Thronia's nostrils. It burned down her throat with the acidity of vomit. Cries began to emanate from the deep. Thronia heard the distant tormented moans and the agonized wailing screeches echoing from depths.

One pierced through the cacophony. A long, grinding, inhuman scream, shrieking like a siren. There was a thumping of heavy hooves, and then up out of the chasm thundered a monstrous horse. Its muscles were bulging and quivering with every movement, and its mouth hung agape, yellow teeth tossing foaming spittle. Just below its flattened ears wide, blood-red eyes darted and flicked with angst.

There was a rider. His face was shadowed by a midnight hood drooping over his eyes, and his shredding cloak billowed around his body. The rest of him was all dark and sharp—spikes and fabric, armor and clothing. From his hip hung a cruel sword. Its curving barbs were etched with metallic blue linings. He dug his pointed boots into the horse's flanks with urgency. The horse widened its maw and shrieked with the same scream Thronia had heard before.

Now the rider hauled the reins, turning his mount towards Persephone. Thronia saw his eyes for a moment. They were gold, like a cat's, and they gleamed with sinister lust.

The steed roared towards Persephone, head whipping and eyes ablaze. Persephone turned slowly back to Thronia. As she locked sights with Thronia her face was calm, but terror flashed in her eyes. Her mouth formed a word.

"Ρέτομε(2)," it shaped silently.

Suddenly the rider, with a whirl of tattered capes and flicker of jagged points, ripped Persephone from her stance, arm around her waist, and dived his mount back into the inky depths. Persephone's bouquet having been flung from her grasp, nestled gently in the grass. The gaping gash in the land grumbled as it sealed shut. The earth seamed together with no trace of the wound. Even the black fog dissipated into the air. The birds began whistling and the flowers smiled at the clear sky.

Behind her Thronia heard the tramping of feet dashing through the field. Trembling she stood to face the sound. Persephone's mother, Demeter, raced towards the clearing followed closely by the other nymphs: Ismanis, Minthe, Harpina, and Castalia.

Frantically Demeter dashed past Thronia into the clearing, her face riddled with fear. The fear of losing a precious child. She peered desperately among the clumps of grass and wildflowers, as if she hoped to find Persephone simply hiding among the plants. Demeter caught sight of the abandoned bouquet of flowers. Knowing it to be Persephone's, her knees buckled as she let out a grievous wail to the empty sky. It wasn't like the cry of someone in physical pain. The sound gouged much deeper into the nymphs' souls. Minthe and Liriope dropped to the ground and began sobbing with great shudders. Thronia stared, still shaking and frozen, as Demeter reinforced her cries with a deep moan. The goddess clutched her auburn hair, still grasping the flowers, and rocked slightly as she murmured indiscernible words. Then she stood. Looking down at the bouquet in her hands her visage morphed from that of grief to one of fury. As she stared at the flowers she clutched them tighter, and they at first wilted, then their petals became dull and colorless, and finally they crumbled altogether between her fingers like ash.

She whirled to face the shaken nymphs. Castalia rushed to disentangle Stilbe from the juniper as Demeter stalked towards them. Knowing Liriope, Stilbe, and Thronia to have been the last to be with Persephone, Demeter turned a vicious gaze on her targets. But seeing that Liriope was sobbing at her feet and Stilbe was still wrapped in the tree, Demeter turned on Thronia. Demeter stood glaring down on Thronia with eyes full of hatred. Those beautiful, forest-green eyes that had never looked on her with anything but care, now cruelly condemned Thronia. Demeter's curved pink lips were pursed tightly and her fine eyebrows were kneaded in a scowl.

Suddenly the goddess drew back a delicate arm and sharply smacked Thronia across the cheek.

The nymph collapsed to the ground and, whimpering, held her own hand to her smarting face. Then she too began crying. But not loudly as Liriope and Minthe did. Salty tears dripped silently from her eyes with the stinging in her cheek and the thought that she, Thronia, had been the cause of Persephone's kidnapping. Then Ismanis, wise Ismanis, was by her side, stroking her gleaming, ebony hair and cradling her head.

Demeter had turned her back on the distressed nymphs and now stormed over a cowering Harpina. She gripped the nymph's skinny arm with talon-like fingers and hoisted her onto her feet. Harpina shakily gazed at the ground. Quietly Demeter uttered a short incantation and waved her free hand across Harpina's trembling body. Releasing Harpina's arm, Demeter shoved her to the ground with disgust. Thronia heard Harpina's soft whines as the nymph's chestnut curls shrouded her face.

Abruptly Harpina's slim body convulsed as she drew her knees to her chin. Thronia watched in dread as Harpina fought with shakes to hold back a scream.

Harpina screamed. This cry was unmistakably in pain.

She rolled, her face to the ground, and clutched at her stomach. Thronia noticed with fright two knobs rising from Harpina's tiny back. They grew until they were bulging, protruding humps, deforming her body. Then as they finally ripped through Harpina's clothing Thronia saw with horror their nature. Two enormous, amber, feathered wings unfurled behind Harpina, dwarfing her as she arched her back and made a final cry to the objective sky.

Then Harpina collapsed into the grass. All the nymphs stared in Harpina's direction, but none made a motion towards her. As one they jolted when Demeter loudly began chanting again, this time repeating the phrase over and over. One, two, three—six times.

Thronia saw Castalia fall first, her golden waves floating down after her. Then went Minthe, groaning through her teeth as her body tightened.

Then Thronia felt it herself. All her bones shattered at once. Or if they didn't, they felt as if they did. Something within her was changing. She clutched at her stomach futilely as her intestines boiled and squirmed. The bones at the tips of her fingers elongated and sharpened, digging through the skin at her fingertips. As she felt these new claws scratch against her stomach, Thronia squeezed her eyelids together tightly and gritted her teeth. Her bite transformed as her teeth themselves changed. A few sharpened. A few dulled. A couple fangs tickled the inner edge of her lip.

Then she felt the lumps in her back. They stretched her skin and twisted her joints. Inside herself she felt her bones grinding together and her ligaments tearing, and as she lay screaming she writhed attempting to alleviate the pain. Her sides burned as soft plumage streaked down the edges of her back and wrapped under her breasts, thinning as it neared her stomach. The knobs had sprouted dense feathers which Thronia now felt ruffling with the two growing masses. Now the feathers at the tips of the growths reached to the small of her back, caressing her skin. The lumps continued to enlarge and stretch into her dress, tightening it against her chest. Just as she thought she would suffocate from the tension, the wings burst through the fabric at her back, and Thronia gasped as she stretched the new appendages, feeling their weight. They were surprisingly light. It seemed that every part of her was light now. Her bones had indeed changed.

Just as Harpina had earlier, Thronia buckled to the turf. Her nerves were singed by the abundance of searing pain having just flooded every member of her body. The nymphs around her lay exhausted in the grass, new wings awkwardly flayed. The group looked very much like flock of strange birds having fallen from the sky.

As the nymphs gradually stirred from their haze, they groggily flexed feathery appendages and exercised sharpened fingers. Thronia stood, _peplos_ shredded by her wings and claws and tremulously faced Demeter. The goddess eyed her viciously and hastily thrust a dainty finger to the cloudless sky. She wanted her daughter found, and so she was sending those responsible to save Persephone. Thronia knew that return without the girl would mean death for herself and the other nymphs.

Thronia turned and saw the rest staring with fear at her. Thronia crouched and then with a buffet of huge, raven wings, leapt into the air in a flurry of feathers and down. She rose into the sky, flapping, and watched as the nymphs below timidly attempted the same. She hovered, her legs dangling high above the earth, as the others approached her with erratic, uncoordinated thrashes.

As the nymphs glided over the land they carried a haunting, lilting tune with melodic voices. The song urged the painful memories from their minds.

* * *

For months the bird-nymphs scoured the face of the earth. They watched from above as the fields went from gold to brown to an eventual gray. Demeter was mourning and Earth felt the impact of her distress.

The nymphs endured pain and cold and hunger. They knew the humans would fear them—would hunt and kill them. And so the nymphs avoided them.

But once as they coasted much too low over a dense forest, they failed to notice a small band of hunters—no more than ten—camouflaged within the foliage and eyeing them with notched arrows. The nymphs' heightened senses detected the hiss of shafts before they heard the juicy thud of sharp points digging into soft flesh—little Liriope's soft flesh. One arrow had buried its head deep in her ribs while another had gouged into the base of her gleaming white wing. Liriope yelled in pain as she tumbled towards the earth, her wings contorting floppily.

They dived as one, copper-haired Stilbe to Liriope's aid and the rest to the source of the attack. The hunters raised spears, clubs, and swords in preparation. Thronia landed in the grass among the trees, ferally crouched on hands and feet, and, pointed teeth bared, stood facing towards the man nearest her. He stared agape at the sight of the magnificent, midnight wings sprouting from her bare, womanly body. Thronia spared no time in taking advantage of his surprise. With a single gust of her wings she catapulted herself above his head and landed on his chest with her knees, pinning him to the ground. And with a swipe of her talons she flayed open his throat. It gushed crimson, and the meat glistened in the sun.

She and the others had survived thus far by hunting their own animals. But this—hunting men—was a much more rewarding sport. She licked her pointed talons, savoring the salty grind of the human muscle.

Thronia turned from her kill, her hands covered in gore and legs dripping blood, at hearing the cries of her sister creatures.

The nymphs long ago abandoned the rags that had once been their clothes and so now wore nothing to protect themselves against the oncoming blows. They felt like animals—emotionless and unthinking, primitive and savage, without a shred of covering or clothing, simply ordered like dogs to perform a task.

Thronia swiftly bounded to Castalia who had doubled over, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. Crimson seeped between her slim forearms and dripped to the ground. A hunter before her raised a sword over her golden head, but the weapon clattered to the ground as Thronia launched herself into the man, digging her talons deep into his abdomen. His scream was cut off as she made a final thrust. She glared directly into his eyes as she delivered the killing blow. He was terrified in his last moment, but Thronia had never received comfort in her terror, and now she would return none.

Standing from her crouch over the dead man, Thronia saw that the rest of the men had been killed, and that the other nymphs had discovered the same as she had. She watched Harpina tenderly scooping entrails from a hunter's stomach and Minthe tearing meat from a one's beefy arm with her sharpened teeth. It had been days since the nymphs' last meal, and their constant flying had left them starved and weary.

Thronia knelt by a moaning Castalia. She eased Castalia's arms from her abdomen, sticky with blood. Castalia gasped as Thronia gingerly ran a claw down the vertical laceration splitting Castalia's flawless skin, tracing it from its start at her heaving ribs to its end by her protruding hip. Castalia's pale down feathers had been plastered to her light skin with bright red.

Thronia leapt to a dead hunter and deftly removed his tunic. She then rushed to a nearby bush and retrieved a clump of leaves. Returning to Castalia Thronia smoothly lifted the injured nymph's back enough to wrap the fabric around her torso. After chewing and spitting the leaves to form a poultice, Thronia rubbed the gel into the cut and tied the peculiar bandage tightly over the wound, all the while whispering quiet words of comfort to the whimpering Castalia.

Brushing her hand down the side of Castalia's face, Thronia stood and darted to where Liriope lay. Stilbe had broken the shafts of the arrows but left the heads in to prevent extreme bleeding. Even still Liriope's pure wings were stained and matted with crimson, and the liquid trickled over her abdomen. The lithe nymph's skin had paled almost to the color of her gleaming white hair, now tangled and unkempt. Her breathing was shallow and slow. Her eyes closed as she struggled for air. Now the others had gathered around as Ismanis gripped Liriope's hand and Thronia softly stroked her sighing, downy sides.

The nymphs began to sing, harmonizing and humming. It was quiet, but Thronia noticed as forest animals gingerly peeped from under bushes or the branches of trees. They were drawn by the singing, but they were no threat.

Liriope didn't die suddenly. Instead she gradually slipped away, her breaths becoming slower and farther apart. After a minute of silence Thronia knew it was over. There was no loud weeping as the nymphs buried Liriope in the ground. The bird-women simply cried, all silently cursing Demeter as they crooned a hymn. That day a seed of hatred against men was rooted in the darkest depths of their hearts.

* * *

After a little less than a year of searching, the nymphs reached the sea. They were dejected and despairing as they collapsed on the sands. They had seen the lands change from healthy and green to dead and gray to healthy and green once more. Demeter was happy again, meaning that Persephone must have been found. The bird-girls would never dare now return to their beloved companion in this state. Deciding that there was nothing left for them on this land they flew out in despondency over the sea. Whether they would make it to another land, they did not know. They did not care.

For three days the nymphs soared over the ocean, all the while praying to Poseidon to send provision. Their formerly opal skin began searing and peeling under the steaming maritime sun and their lips began shriveling from the salty sea air.

On the fourth day of their flight, they saw dotted on the western horizon, an island. It wasn't a continent, but it was land. Which meant water and rest. An island may prove to be more profitable for the bird-girls as they could be removed from the humans yet still be provided for by land. Although the nymphs had been able to dive into the water below and snatch fish with their talons or teeth as they had seen sea-birds do, they had neither slept nor drunk in days.

The island had no shore. It was all crags and jutting rocks, elevating the land from the waves lapping at its walls. Once they were over the island, all woods and fields—unusual characteristics of an ocean island—the bird-women dropped from the sky into one of the island's clearings and tumbled and rolled through the grass until they stopped. If it wasn't for their need for water, the nymphs would have slept in the sun-washed meadow for a day.

As it was, Thronia with difficulty mounted into the sky once more. The ocean breeze ripped at her long black strands and pulled at her struggling wings. Just down a hill from the glade Thronia spotted a sparkling pond, the sunlight glaring off its surface. She dove back to her flock, and they walked the short distance to the water.

At the soft, sandy banks of the fresh pond Thronia stood tucking her toes into the cool clay as the others lapped at the water or splashed it over their burning bodies. She remembered a time when her father had taken her to visit the dryads, the water spirits. Thronia had stood at the bank of the river, clutching her father's rough, warm hand and watching as the beautiful faeries had leapt and twirled from the water.

She had wanted to be like them, gorgeous and free. Well, she was free now. What more could one wish for than the freedom of flight? But that freedom had cost her beauty. Thronia looked down at her reflection in the rippling water. She saw herself, bare and thin, tendrils of dark down licking around her torso from her back where her midnight wings hung low like tumors. Swiveling her hips she turned to the side to view the feathered growths. Where they sprouted from between her shoulder blades, there was a knot, a joint, on each prickling with short, black feathers which fanned out at the base of the joint and spread until they became the thinner fluff streaking down her back. The wings themselves crooked down from the sprout and then shortly bent at a joint to reach above her head until another joint doubled back and the wing ran until its tip where the sharp pinions brushed the Thronia's calves. She was a beast. An animal—exposed and mutated. For once in her life she wished to be a mortal human. A simple, beautiful human.

And yet, despite the horrid appendages clinging to her back, her waist and hips still curved gently and her raven locks still flowed elegantly from her head. She brought a hand to her face and traced the wave of her cheek bone and smooth line of her jaw. Running her fingertips along the bags below her eyes, Thronia stared into her own pupils. They were surrounded by a gray, dull ring. The gray used to be bright. It used to laugh from beneath her long, black eyelashes reaching to brush her dark, curved eyebrows. Thronia touched her round, drawn lips. They hadn't deigned to smile in months. They were cracking and dry.

Remembering her thirst, Thronia dropped to her knees submerging her lips in the cool liquid and taking deep, full gulps of the precious water. When she could hold no more she flung her body back onto the sands as the other nymphs had and slept.

* * *

She walked through a market, wingless and wearing her old _peplos_. She turned to a clothing vendor, but he wasn't human as she had expected he would be. He had fangs peeking from his lips and tufts of fur growing on his pointed ears. He snarled, "Ʃɛıρήν! Ʃɛıρήν!(3)" Now he stepped from behind his booth. He wore no clothes. Around her shoppers and sellers closed in chanting the name. They were all deformed, some with mutated animal attributes, others with missing or extra limbs. Some crawled; some walked; some hovered. None were clothed. A clawed hand gripped her arm, digging deep into the muscle while a bare forearm with only a nub in place of the hand locked her other arm tightly in itself. She screamed as a hairless, gray-skinned man with golden eyes raced towards her raising a gleaming black sword lined with shining blue streaks.

* * *

Minthe woke Thronia from her nightmare with a hand clapped over Thronia's screaming mouth. She was grasping Thronia's arm with one of her taloned hands. It was night, but a glowing moon shone, and Thronia could just make out beneath Minthe's film of deep maroon waves her cat-like features—her almond eyes, her upturned nose, her curling upper lip, her sly, gleaming smile. Minthe lifted Thronia from her spot and guided her towards the pond. The other nymphs already fluttered at the surface of the pond, legs and wings shining as they dipped and splashed in the water, like swallows in a birdbath.

Smiling she clasped Minthe's hand and leapt into the air. Above the pond the two let themselves tumble down into the water among the bird-girls. Thronia splashed next to Harpina, who stood chest-deep in the pool, her chestnut wings drifting at its surface. The girl's curls were already soaked, but nevertheless glistened beautifully in the moonlight. Thronia draped a wing around Harpina affectionately and gently kissed her on a cheek. Harpina smiled and returned a lips' brush to Thronia's face. Suddenly Stilbe, her red hair turned a deep mahogany by the water, gripped Harpina's shoulders from behind and dunked her under the dark pond's surface, giggling.

Thronia felt a thin hand at the skin between her dripping wings. Turning she caught the hand as it slid from her slick back. As Thronia pivoted, Castalia simpered with a bright crescent between her lips. Her feathers looked like golden replicas, and her long, blond tresses draped down past her breasts. Thronia took her own free hand and stroked Castalia's ribs to the tip of her ridged scar under the water's surface. Just as she had the day Liriope had died, Thronia traced the scar down to Castalia's hip, feeling her silky down with a palm and caressing her waist with gentle fingers. And just as she had on that same agonizing day, Castalia inhaled sharply with a quiet whimper. But no longer in pain.

Suddenly Thronia saw Liriope's dying eyes, her paling skin, her drooping wings. She saw the blood again. It was there on her wings, splattering her stomach. Thronia shut her eyes and buried herself in Castalia's shoulder. There were the arrows. They were coming! But then there was Liriope stuck with shafts and heaving for her last breath. Thronia whipped her head and squeezed her eyes tighter, hoping to lose the image. Castalia gripped her arms tighter around Thronia's waist, understanding her thoughts.

Castalia in a crystal, honeyed voice began breathing a song. It was the song the nymphs had sung as they had buried Liriope. Ismanis was there clasping Thronia's cheeks and resting Thronia's head against her chest while whispering the words into her ear. Her silvery hair reflected the moonlight brightly. Ismanis was the oldest and wisest of the nymphs, but still attained as youthful an appearance as any of the bird-girls.

Soon Minthe, Harpina, and Stilbe joined their huddle and begun crooning the lilting hymn. The nymphs lifted their voices harmoniously to the star-speckled sky, and their haunting ballad lullabied the galaxy.

Suddenly Ismanis shot from the water, startling the others. She winged over the hill and flew to peer over the crags plummeting to the ocean, her senses having been alerted. There caught in the jutting rocks were the remains of a ship. And Ismanis could see with her clear, night vision, some sailors crawling up the crags, some already splattered against the boulders by the waves. Ismanis flew back to the crest of the hill and motioned to the waiting nymphs.

Thronia and the rest took off from the water and followed Ismanis to the edge. Thronia saw the shipwrecked sailors attempting to climb the rocks. They cried. But not in fear or despair. It was with a desperate desire they wailed. Without intention the alluring words and tunes of the nymphs' songs had ensnared the ears and souls of the sailors.

But Thronia heard only the sounds of enemies and prey down below. She dived over the cliff followed by Stilbe and snatched the first sailor she encountered with talons hooked into the meaty muscles of his shoulders. She bore him high above the island then released him to the ground below. From far above Thronia watched as his body contorted and snapped. As she landed, sitting on his soaking and bloodied chest, she was confused to see the look of deep satisfaction riddling the man's face. Thronia sliced his neck and frowned as a contented smile rested on his face even in death.

Bodies rained around her through the dark, cracking and whipping violently as they cracked against the ground. Thronia and the other nymphs, after retrieving every sailor, hungrily ripped open their kills and dug for a firm muscle or savory entrail.

As Thronia hummed while she gouged out a prime piece, she realized the reason for the sailor's expression. It was her. Her and all the other bird-girls. And their voices. Their seducing, enchanting voices.

* * *

During the day the nymphs explored and danced. They found a shallow cave, protecting themselves from the beating sun. Thronia napped in the crook of Minthe's body, Minthe's stomach pressing into her back. Minthe nestled softly in the feathers of Thronia's wings. Minthe had saved her once from her own dreams. Perhaps she could again.

Thronia saw no more chanting, beastly people in her sleep.

However as the bird-girls slept a bulging thunderhead rolled into the ocean sky. Thronia's eyes darted open at the first rumble of a distant thunderclap. Gently disentangling herself from the nest of sleeping nymphs, she walked out into the cloudy, haze. She followed along the edge of the island enjoying the turbulence in the air as the storm approached.

The winds of Aiolos(4) licked around her waist and whistled through her feathers while tickling her downy sides. The airs were cool but moist and felt as if they left residue as they rubbed past her skin. She opened her hand in front of her, feeling the soft way the breeze flowed through her fingers. It was sleek and velvety. Thronia closed her hand slowly as if to catch it, but it darted between her talons.

She glanced down at the thrashing waves which were angered by the coming storm. Thronia looked out to the gray sea. In the distance white streaks of light flashed from the swollen belly of the clouds to dip into the wrinkling ocean. She searched for signs of life in the waves. But she saw no darting fish, no lumbering whale, no flapping bird.

But there, struggling against the currents, tossed a solitary ship.

Its sails were drawn as it was battered by the rising waves. Thronia crouched as a predator, listening for the yelling of the crew and the beating of the drums as oars were thrust from the ship's sides.

She used to fear herself—what she had been made. Her pointed teeth, her curved talons, her enormous wings. But now as the thrill of the kill approached terribly, she embraced herself both within and without. She flexed her claws and bared her teeth—unfurled her wings.

If only they would drift a bit closer. Then she would dare to snatch a few of the things.

But—she remembered last night. The nymphs' songs had lured the sailors to them.

Thronia dived from the cliff and stooped on one of the crags low to the spraying water. She began to sing. Her hymn was eerie. It carried itself over the restless water and engulfed the ship in its melody. Intoxicated, the sailors turned their ship for the island, desperately crying out of desire and ill happiness. The notes held a different but immeasurably potent meaning for every man. And so every man was gripped by the song, no matter the events of his past, for Thronia's song drifted with incantations of memories, both dark and bright, that stirred the sailors to such exhilaration and such anguish that they knew not whether their tears were of joy or sorrow. As the sailors neared, the lilting tune grew sickeningly overwhelming. But they were too hopelessly ensnared to turn away.

The ship rammed into the rocky island wall, splintering and cracking and groaning as the rain began to torrent into the sea. The sea became a waving blanket of porous ocean. Across the water a foggy film formed in the air—the downpour prohibited Thronia's normally hawk-like vision. But below she clearly watched as the ship constantly surged into the boulders, pummeled by the heaving waves, and the men having spotted the source of their joyous misery—the alluring bird-woman crooning and perched promiscuously—attempted to approach Thronia's position.

Some did not leave the boat. They were suddenly crushed in their despair by falling masts or tumbling cargo.

Many did not get far past the ship's edge. They were cruelly smashed against the ship's side, or impaled by the forceful waves on the jagged, impending crags surrounding them on all sides.

Most did not keep their heads above water. They were jerked below with a final cry of torment by the undulating currents and crashing floods.

One however scrabbled among the shoals to the protruding rock face, vertically jutting like a beacon, from which Thronia leaned. His face contorted in emotional pain; his body bobbed against the steep edge of the rock. Crying out as Thronia continued to croon her song he clawed up the side of the rugged structure. Thronia, a sly grin hovering at her lips, prowled enticingly to meet him, back arched and lips parted slightly in song. The torrent pelted her body as her hair was soaked now and hung at her ribs in snarled, ebony locks, and her skin, where smooth of feathers or down, glistened wetly while she held her dripping wings tightly behind her. The sailor reached out a trembling hand, howling now above the winds themselves as Thronia's singing softened.

Thronia placed a hand at his jaw, feeling his thick, curly beard sodden with water droplets. She laughed silently at her own game. The sailor threw his arms to her as she gripped his ragged tunic and pulled him closer, now resting her chest down on his shoulders and breathing her musical chant in his very ear. He moaned in relief and contentment.

Turning his face towards her own with a finger at his throat and staring into his clouded, agonized eyes, wet with mingled tears and water and shrouded partly by stringent, copper tresses, she suddenly grew silent. Thronia watched treacherously as the haze dissipated from his eyes and his desperate shaking ceased. Realization flooded his face as the rain pounded at his head and beard; the lyrical spell lifted from his mind. Talons grazed his neck, and lips behind which vicious fangs grew brushed his neck—he was in the grip of a killer.

"Ʃɛıρήν," he breathed accusingly, harshly, fearfully.

"Υαί(5)," Thronia whispered quietly as she magnificently unfurled her ebony wings, brazenly displaying the inky shadows from the depths of her body, her nature, her _self_.

* * *

1 A _peplos_ was a long, dress-like article of clothing worn by women in ancient Greece.

2 Ρέτομε is the singular imperative verb form of the ancient Greek word _petomai_ meaning "I fly."

3 Ʃɛıρήν is the ancient Greek word _Seirēn_ which in English is written "Siren."

4 Aiolos is an ancient minor Greek god who ruled the winds.

5 Υαί is the ancient Greek word _vai_ meaning "indeed" or "yes."

* * *

**Author's Note**: Yes, I know I promised no more notes. But I have to congratulate you if you're reading this. This hopefully means that you read through the entire story (or you peeked at this while reading the cliffnotes just above). If you actually finished the story then I would really like to hear from you in the comments or in a PM. I put a lot of effort into creating this, and you put a lot of effort into reading this, so let's do ourselves a favor and let something good (improvement of my writing on account of your comments) come of all this toil! The phrase about not saying anything if you only have mean things to say doesn't apply here. Criticism is definitely acceptable, just don't do it with profanity and be specific so that it actually has effect. Of course, praise is always welcome, too! And don't be afraid to go total English-nerd on me (those of you, like myself, who still exist somewhere out there). I love a good rhetorical or literary analysis, especially if it would concern my work. So grammar/spelling, syntax, word choice, plotline, characters, literary devices (metaphors, similes, imagery, personification, etc.), settings, character development: any thoughts on those or other topics would be much appreciated!


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